The Tenderloin (Fourth course)

The Tenderloin

In my kitchen sits some of my most prized possessions. My mixer is one of them, a rice cooker, a sticky rice steamer, mortar and pestle. The latter of the four, were gifts given to me by good friends, and I cherish them both deeply. I had not grown up with fancy kitchen items, but our tiny kitchen, laminated with intense yellow paint, is a place of wonder and magic. It holds many memories and of course it is the place I began my own culinary journey.

I always lusted after glass latch containers or stainless-steel containers, finer kitchen appliances, that would one day sit on our non-existent counter tops. While visiting my friend’s apartments and flats, their kitchens were noticeably bigger and the counter space that I could only dream about, materialized right before my eyes. On many visits to different places, a pot of Kroeung Curry simmered on stoves. Next to it, usually in a regular sauce pot dented from repeated use, held a fresh batch of jasmine rice, and perhaps a frying pan with tilapia sitting in the oil it had been fried in. Those pots were in no way fancy, but I admired them the same, because the simplicity was attractive.

As I glanced around the kitchen, I noticed how creative one can be by reusing containers, and putting spices and flours, and other condiments inside. Sugar in empty mayonnaise jars, dried shrimps in bulk containers that used to hold oils or coffee, and jars full of this deep amber concoction, which even with the lid on, managed to emit a strong odor.

I was always invited to eat, and the first time I tasted Kroeung curry, I had an otherworldly experience. This soup, with bits of chicken, potatoes, carrots, velvety, sweet and spicy, whose hue matched that of my kitchen, transported me into a time and space I'd never been before. It is a treat when you soak up the soup with a baguette or with a Chinese donut, and studded the remaining morsels with bits of rice. It is the most memorable introduction I've had with Cambodian cuisine.

Along the main streets of the Tenderloin, lies many apartments with kitchens bursting like this. (In the TL which my Bong, older brother, had forbid me to stay too long, he respected my Mom (who he barely knew), but he knew she would be upset if she found out, I was hanging out down there. My bong and the other homies respected that, and I in turn appreciated the love).

Ask any one you know, and the Tenderloin can be the topic of many discussions. I can only address and discuss what I know, from the mid to late 90’s and what I know comes from deep level of love and affection. While it is notarized as being toxic, morbid, and impoverished, I can tell you firsthand, that besides all that, there is a strong sense of community. Being an only child, (no siblings, no relatives who were my peers), what attracted me to the Cambodian, Laos, Vietnamese and Thai communities, is the way they had the ability to draw people in. You are, for the most part, accepted and loved as family immediately. Especially if the parents like you. You are invited to eat with them, as much as you can, and if you decline it is sometimes, almost considered to be disrespectful to oblige too many times. They love it when you enjoy the food, and they they get a bang out of it when you like Prahok (which is fermented fish paste, and I surely do love it). They invite you to stay over, and if I didn't, the elders would often send me home with something for my Mom. They were always thinking of us, and our smaller-than-theirs family.

In turn, they are curious to your upbringing, as most are when you meet new people.

Surely not every South East Asian is a representative of the Tenderloin, and vice versa neither is the Tenderloin a representative of South East Asians. But when many of them migrated from Southeast Asia to San Francisco between the 60’s 70’s 80’s 90’s,, this is where they rooted.

I remember on a beautiful San Francisco day, mid-nineties, I stood on Leavenworth hanging out with some friends. A homeboy of mine, who had appeared from almost nowhere, held out a bag of un-ripened plums, he had just picked off a tree. They were seasoned with salt, Thai chilies and fish sauce. This is considered a past time, and during a certain time of the year you can see municipal plum trees, bare from its fruits. I stuck my hand in the bag, to take a few. An explosion of sour, salty and spicy tickled my palette, and I could not get enough. I asked him what the “recipe” was for it, and he would not tell me. This response, I would find in many future situations. Especially with my “Mings” ( aunties inherited by friendship), or my “Moms” (it is quite common for friends to address the elders of our friends by “Mom, Dad Ming, Bong). I soon found out, that most wanted to make these dishes for me, rather than tell me the recipe. If I wanted to help this was fine, but usually the recipe was not given to me or revealed. Most dishes are done by taste and repetition. For the most part I just wanted to help. If it was okay by them, it was fine by me.

Many of us who never resided in the Tenderloin were brought together by simply knowing each other. Our peer groups included Blacks, Latinos, Persians, Pacific Islanders, other Filipinos. and people of mixed raced background. At any given time, you can find a group of all of the above celebrating Cambodian, Thai, Laos and Vietnamese New year. And sometimes we would gather for nothing. It was almost a daily routine for my friends, to come and swoop me up and take me cruisingor somewhere near to hang out.

On a regular day, I would take my shoes off at the door, and walk barefoot through a hallway that gave into an open living space. On the floor a handmade mat of bamboo, straw, or some other weaving material. Simple dishes were presented beautifully and placed on the center of the mat. Crawfish, still alive clamored over each other in boxes, at which some point I found myself, being chased by one. Steamed rice and rice noodles neatly bundled into servings, sautéed fish, BBQ, meats, heaping plates of fresh mint, Thai basil, chili peppers, mung mean, cilantro, lettuce, and vessels of dipping sauces. In catering, we call it “family style”, and for many Southeast Asians this is tradition. To sit around and eat together, to make the simplest food, simple flavors refined and complex. I remember the first time going out fishing or crabbing, in which the fondness for where I lived was reciprocated by many of my friends. Unbeknownst to me, many of the areas near me were prime places they had frequented way before we knew each other. When my bell rang, I knew it was a homie coming pick me up to go fishing or crabbing. Being that I did not do much, or had no siblings to show me these things, it was always an adventure for me. With a pot of cooked rice, veggies, and seasoning sauces already packed and ready to go, we would head to the fishing pier, sometimes all the way out to the delta. After a few hours, the fishing spots became kin to a pop-up commissary kitchen. Resourceful people, I had thought to myself. The amount of food dishes they could produce, on so little was amazing. My friends were resourceful people. Everything they did resonated so deep within, that there were times, I revisited the origins of my own ethnic background. Other than from my own family, I had never felt such an innate synergy. From the cultural practices and the way, they celebrate life and death, it all makes sense to me. And on a soulful level it feels natural as well.

Much has changed in the Tenderloin since I took a bite out of those unforgettable plums. From the racial demographics to the restaurants that line the streets. The largest Cambodian store had closed over a decade ago, and along with it the little aquarium stores and cafes. Some friends, all but few, have moved onward and outward, either into other neighborhoods or other cities. What remains is the all too well-known tale of inhabitants who deal with poverty addictions and struggle. They are very much a part of the story, but the not the entirety. I always remind myself that spirit is omni-present, it is carried by some of the most likely and unlikely individuals. Unless it is Khmer New year’s, I probably could not come up on another bag of plums, but at least I have the memory of eating them there. As I recall the soft hymn of Cambodian music, bellowing from a store front that is no longer present, I know from deep within, that the very spirit, which molded me greatly still, is. I am eternally grateful for making friends in the Tenderloin.